Ten Missed Calls
by Avocado Ink
Summary: Francis is dead. Francis is dead, and my phone says that I have ten missed calls. That's all... right?  USUK, slight FrUK. Warning: Character Death
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Ten Missed Calls

**Setting: **Hetalia AU, takes place in Southern California, USA. The main reason for this setting is that this is where I live. Lame, right?

**Characters/Pairing: **Okay I'll just say right now, the main pairing is USUK (America/England, Alfred/Arthur, however you want to say it), which is why I said that they are the main characters of this story. However, I actually think that _Francis_ and Arthur are the main characters of this fanfiction (but Alfred has a big role, too!), and this fanfiction contains a _high_ amount of FrUK (France/England, Francis/Arthur). So, uh, this is a warning for those that aren't tolerant toward multiple pairings. Other characters from the series may also appear.

**Summary: **Francis is dead. Francis is dead, and my phone says that I have ten missed calls. That's all. ... right? (Incredibly crappy summary, but I hope you guys actually read it and enjoy!)

**Warnings: **Character death (if you haven't already gotten that), cursing, rating prone to change, a bit of supernatural happenings, and a lot of flashbacks. A lot. Oh, and horrible grammar. And slow updates. Oops.

**Author's Note: **Hello! This is my first actual serious Axis Powers Hetalia fanfiction despite that I've really been into the series for more than a year now. I am absolutely in _love_ with USUK, and while I don't really know where this story is going (my writing usually doesn't listen to my brain), I hope that you will enjoy it!

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><p>When I picked up my phone, its little screen announced that I had ten missed calls.<p>

I didn't think much of it. In fact, I didn't even bother to check who it was that had called me, gave a small shrug, and put down my phone. I had better things to do; my little brother, Peter, tore his pants from a wild fall two weeks ago and I still had to mend it because my mother was busy, dinner wasn't going to cook itself, and the roses needed trimming or else they were all going to rot, and I still had to finish several work-related matters.

I was a busy person. Always was, always will be.

The day wore on. It was a hot; despite that it was only May, summer was approaching quite rapidly and the sun was burning its way through what were supposed to be rainclouds. If I still lived in London, it'd probably be pouring out. Instead I was stuck here in California, the United States of America, only a couple of blocks away from where my mother lived with my obnoxious little brother.

Ah, well, it wasn't like I minded. Ignore the amazingly high gas prices and house prices and everything-prices and the constant car accidents in the freeway and not to mention that _incredibly rude people_; in the end, I had to agree that this place had the best weather. Even winter offered a warm sun and dry days. Snow was only a legend to be found in the mountains up north.

Still, though, these thoughts did not make me entirely appreciate the sweat that formed beads at the back of my neck as I snipped off dead roses from their bush. The sunhat that I wore gave little protection from the heat, and I soon gave up and retreated back to my house. I could work on them again in the evening, when it was cooler.

I was chugging a cold water bottle when it slipped back into my vision. My cell phone, lying forgotten on the counter. Ah, I had forgotten about it.

My mind strayed back to the ten missed calls, and I frowned. I didn't have to think much to guess whom it was from. In fact, I didn't want to think much about it!

It came to me then that I had bunched up my shoulders and forced myself to relax them. I gave myself a small scoff for getting worked up. It's fine. The idiot called me ten times, and I didn't pick up because I was busy and I didn't want to talk to him. It's fine.

He deserved it.

Knowing him, he'd probably call me again later.

The thought of him actually daring to call me again made me pick my phone, storm to my room, and chuck it as hard as I could. It slammed against the wall before sliding to the space between my bed and wall. I gave an irritated snort. It'd take forever getting the thing out of there, but I knew the damned phone was the only way that he would try to contact me.

It would take a lot of guts for Francis to actually appear at my front door after all the bloody shit he spat at me yesterday.

I snort again and leave my room, intent on working in the living room, where it would be cooler. It's not like I expected him to, anyway.

* * *

><p><em>Ding-dong.<em>

My heart skipped a beat when the doorbell rang, and I jumped out of my dining chair. Panic settled in quicker than I imagined it to. Did he–? Did he actually have the _nerve _to–?

Before I could dwell on it the door betrayed me and opened and––

I stared. The world, for a second, seemed to freeze in place. The temperature of the room got drastically colder and, despite that I was sweating just moments before, a shiver ran up my spine.

Two men, both professionally dressed in their uniforms, stared at me with impassive expressions from the doorway.

"Y-Yes?" I couldn't help but to stutter. Francis couldn't have called the cops on me. He couldn't have.

The policeman looking back at me gave a small nod. "You're Arthur Kirkland, I believe?" he asks in a deep, somber voice. "We wish to have a word with you."

The first thing I did was offer to make them tea, and, to my surprise, they took the offer. If Francis had framed me for something drastic like murder or setting a house on fire or even just drunk driving, wouldn't they have just cut to the chase and tell me? This reassured me, and I quickly made the tea and brought it to the living room on a tray.

They officers, sitting down in my tidy but light living room, looked out of place. They accepted the tea easily, and the one that first talked at the doorway took a long sip before setting his cup down.

"Arthur Kirkland," he said, and I hurried to gulp down my own sip of tea.

"Y-Yes," I managed to sputter.

"We are sorry to say that we have come with bad news. I assume that you are, of course, friends with Francis Bonnefoy?"

My heart sinks down my chest. Oh no. He framed me for something. Or, no, better yet he got framed for something, and he probably accused me of doing it. Or he just got in trouble and wanted me to bail him out. I already had to bail him out a few times.. _But as if I'll do it now! _I think, angrily. Did Francis _really _expect me to do that––?

"Not friends," I managed to spit out. Thinking about him put a bad taste in my mouth. "But yes, I did know him for quite some time. Why do you ask? Did the bastard get into any trouble?"

The officers glance at each other, a bit uneasy from the venom in my voice, and the other one said, slowly, "... I don't think 'trouble' is quite the word for it, Mr. Kirkland.."

"Oh dear _goodness_, don't tell me he did something crazy and got himself killed," I groaned jokingly. He probably got frisky and shagged this lady and they found out she got pregnant and he decided to blame me for it for some reason. Or he did a child and was caught. Or he just probably did something in _public _and got caught––

"Mr. Kirkland. I'm really sorry to say this, but he did."

I waved off his comment with my hand, still wondering what the hell he did this time––then blinked.

What? What did they say?

"Pardon?"

The officer took a heavy sigh, then started. "Mr. Bonnefoy was killed in a car accident yesterday night. We suspect that he was highly intoxicated. He swerved into the wrong lane, and then sharply veered into a pole at top speed to avoid another driver. He was injured from the impact of his steering wheel as well as shattered pieces of his windshield. He died soon afterward of what we suspect to be internal bleeding. We checked his cell phone once we managed to salvage it from the wreck, and it said that he had called you ten times half an hour before the accident."

* * *

><p><em>. . . When I first moved to America,<em> _with my hand in my mother's, I was lost_. It was so _bright_, so _blue_. It was just so _unfamiliar_.

I was five. I was only just beginning to open the giant collection of fairy tales my mother had bought me, but I had already discovered that words are magical. They brought tales I had never heard of before to life, and told me about faeries––faeries and unicorns and magic that you can find at the end of a rainbow.

I wanted to be Little Red Riding Hood. I wanted to face wolves in the forest and save my grandmother (who was still in England at that time, but I knew I could still save her). My mother, who was good at sewing and embroidery, made me a green cloak instead––she said it matched my eyes much better than a red cloak, though she tied it together with a red ribbon just in case.

I cried when I first got it, though I grew to love it later.

I was wearing this cloak that I met Francis. Our neighborhood was close to an open park that had plenty of trees. I was there with the unicorn I had just met. I named him Paul; he was beautiful, with a glowing white coat and a golden horn. We were talking about the shortage of unicorns in America–according to Paul, he had several relatives in England, which saddened me–when there was a rustle in the bushes next to us. Paul turned his head toward that direction and then, with a flicker of his ears, disappeared.

Then the prettiest girl I had ever seen stepped out of the bushes, her light teal dress brushing against her knees as she moved. Her eyes were a light, pale blue, and her golden hair fell in waves to the ends of her face. Her expression was curious and innocent; I felt that she had been watching me for a minute or so, and finally decided to ask me what I was doing.

I was stunned. A five-year-old boy probably didn't understand beauty as well as an adult would, but I knew then that this girl was beautiful enough to be a princess.

That was, until she opened her mouth.

I then discovered Francis, the most feminine human, even compared to other girls, to ever walk on this earth.

"What are you laughing at?" he asked in an annoyed thick French accent, as I couldn't help but to burst into peals of laughter after he asked who I was. He was older than me, around three years or so. This only made the situation more funny. This guy was older than me, and I looked more like a man than him!

"Y-You're wearing a dress!" I managed to choke out. That was perhaps not a very mature thing to say, but there wasn't a lot of mature things for a five-year-old to say back then.

He flushed, his mouth opened in surprise as he looked down at his clothes and tried to deny the statement.

To this day, though, I still think it's impossible for anyone in the world to say that what he wore that day wasn't a dress. It was, of course. His mother was a fashion designer for children, and Francis was her lab rat.

"W-Well you're wearing a cloak!" he snapped back, his ears flushed red. "Who do you think you are, a hunter?"

No, I was a boy in his riding cloak looking for adventure while picking wildflowers. The hunter comes later when I find the wolf. I opened my mouth to correct him, but he continued:

"And that outfit underneath that cloak of yours looks awfully like a dress, too! You even have a ribbon!"

It was my turn to stammer now. I was wearing pants underneath, I was! "I-I'm not!" It was only years later when I discovered that those weren't pants, that was merely my underwear.

"Of course you are!"

"Well how about your _hair_? Your hair's so long! I thought you were a girl when I first saw you!"

"What? What about your _eyebrows_? I thought they were dirt smudges until I realised that they had fur! I then thought they were caterpillars!"

We were still shouting insults at each other–well, the best insults two children from completely different countries could think of–when our mothers found and separated us. They apologized deeply to each other, and my mother was so embarrassed that she actually invited Francis' mother–and thus Francis–over for a cup of tea. I expected a French-American woman to refuse, but to my surprise she agreed, and even set us up a play date.

One play date turned into two, which turned into five, which turned into ten and then infinite. No matter how many plates were smashed or strands of hair were pulled or angry tears were spilled, our mothers got along so well that they grew not to care. In fact, they believed that we went along greatly!

Francis and I, as we sent glares at each other over our shoulders and threw pencils at each other's heads, _heartily disagreed. . ._

* * *

><p>"You're kidding––"<p>

"Mr. Kirkland––"

"Oh, you don't have to call me that!" I snapped. "You're kidding! Francis bribed you guys into doing this––I don't know, his mum's freaking rich and he must've gotten money from her or probably sold his body, it doesn't matter––and––and––he's outside right now, isn't he, watching my reaction and hoping he can see me cry?"

By then I was already out of my seat, slamming open the front door as I ignored the officers as they called me. Angrily, I kicked around at the bushes located around the house, even making my way around the corners. But no, there was no Francis. Damn, that guy was good at hiding.

I started shouting his name. Even Francis knew it was a bad idea to hide from me for too long.

Tears welled up in the corners of my eyes, blurring my vision as I tore through the foliage. But it wasn't because I believed the officers! I was just frustrated! He really knew that he shouldn't do this! I fucking hated it when he saw me cry!

* * *

><p><em>. . . A couple of months after we had met, Francis and I had another play-date as our moms talked together over a cup of tea. <em>This time it was a little bit different; Francis' mother wanted us to come over for dinner.

We arrived there around four. There was still plenty of time for Francis' mother to cook, so she and my mother shooed Francis and me off to play in the park.

We still didn't know the neighborhood kids that well, though Francis had befriended these two German and Spanish kids. Apparently his mother didn't like the German one––Gilbert, he was called––, but the three were inseparable. Apparently Francis spent a lot of time at one of their houses, though he still had play dates with me.

This was the first time I met them. They were both rather happy looking––Antonio's face was a ball of sunshine, while Gilbert always had a smug smirk on his face. They didn't greet me unkindly, which I didn't expect, though Gilbert did sneer at how small I was.

"Let's play-hide-and-go-seek," he suggested after a small silence. He wiggled his eyebrows at Francis and Antonio, who, after a few seconds of staring, smiled and nodded.

Francis became "it" through a small round of Black and White, and we ran off into the trees to hide. I knew where to go! I knew the forest (it wasn't really a forest. Not really, but back then my imagination was larger) inside out. There was a large tree with a snug space under its roots that I could hide in. I quickly located it and squeezed into the little cavern, and waited.

I don't know how long I waited. All I could hear was my excited breathing, which slowed down over time, and the occasional shuffling I made to get myself comfortable. I was flat against my stomach, peeking through the gap between the tree's roots, waiting.

It was getting dark when a faerie finally noticed me. It was surprised that I was there. I asked her if she had seen a girly looking guy, or maybe an albino one or a guy with a goofy grin always on his face, and she said she hadn't seen them even though she had just flown over the entire forest. I then knew something was wrong, so I wriggled out and began searching for them.

It got dark quickly. The faerie decided to stay with me for a little while as I walked through the forest, looking for Francis and the others. There were scary things in the forest. What if they got caught and eaten?

"Gilbert!" I tried. "Antonio!" No response. "Francis!"

Nothing.

It only got darker. Darker and darker. The trees became shadows, and my faerie companion soon only became the only source of light. Her faint twinkling barely illuminated what was in front of me.

Tears sprung into my eyes despite her comforts. She, too, knew the dangers of being in the forest at night.

I began to run. "Gilbert!" It suddenly dawned on me that I had no idea where I was. It was too dark. "Antonio!" There were shadows everywhere. "Francis!"

The wind brushed through the leaves of trees.

"Francis!"

An owl hooted.

"FRANCIS!"

My foot caught on a root and I tripped into dead leaves and damp soil. The faerie, startled, disappeared. I began to sob, still calling his name.

The bushes near me suddenly rustled, and I sat up with a start, my heart pounding in my chest. A monster must've heard me, or a ghost, and it was coming––

A beam of light fell onto my face, blinding me, as Francis burst out of the bushes.

"Arthur!" he exclaimed in surprise, because by then I had already gotten up and was sobbing into his t-shirt.

"Stupid!" I bawled. "It's dangerous here! You could have died!"

A couple of minutes later I found out that Francis and his friends had deliberately ditched me and that they were safely in Gilbert's house the entire time._ I refused to talk to any of them, even Francis, for a month after that. . ._

* * *

><p>I found myself in the space between a bush and a wall of my house, kneeling down in the dirt and smearing the stuff over my face as I attempted to stem the flow of tears coming from my eyes. Somehow, my body knew the truth before my mind did.<p>

The shadow of an officer fell over me and I looked up.

"I-It's true, isn't it?" I asked, keeping my voice low in an attempt to keep it calm. The attempt failed badly. "He's really..." I couldn't get the word out. My throat felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, and I was suddenly filled with the urge to puke. I squeezed my eyes tight, provoking more tears to spill out, and tried to remember to breathe.

The officer nodded somberly, before holding out a hand to help me up.

Normally I would have refused, but by then almost all strength had left my body. I numbly put my hand in his and felt myself being lifted up. The world was swaying. He took me by the shoulders and led me back to my living room, where I flopped down onto the couch.

"I assume that you haven't seen your cell phone, then?" he questioned, his voice gentle.

"No. I lost it a couple of days ago." The words formed and rolled out of my mouth before I could even blink. "I'll see if I can find it today."

The officer nodded, then glanced at his partner, who had walked up behind him, and he replied by looking down at his watch.

"Mr. Kirkland, I am very sorry for your lost," he said in a formal voice. I tried to gather the energy to scowl at him––as if Francis was a big lost!––but instead my vision became even more blurry and I felt more warm tears trail down my cheeks. He continued onward, "According to his mother, his funeral is scheduled to happen next Saturday. She wishes that you call her."

Funeral? I couldn't even begin to think about a funeral when I was already trying to swallow the fact that he was dead. However, I couldn't just leave them be, so I nodded numbly.

"Thank you. Again, we are terribly sorry for your loss," he repeated. He patted my shoulder before he and his partner left, leaving me standing alone on my front lawn.

* * *

><p><strong>Note:<strong> And tragedy from the start! For all us USUK fans, don't worry; Alfred will make his appearance soon!

Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Hey all! Sorry for the... what, _extremely very long_ wait for the second chapter? I'm sooo sorry, school hit me like a hammer and _BAM!_ a couple of months have passed since I've published the first chapter! Wow!

I can't promise that I'll upload any quicker, sorry, but yes here's a new chapter. And other characters too! Finally!

Enjoy!

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><p>The next day I got a letter.<p>

There was no name on it, though it had a return address. I sat at my kitchen table and dully turned the envelope over in my hands, not really wondering who it was from. I could try using a phonebook if I really wanted to know, but I didn't. After a couple of moments, I finally grabbed a knife and slit open the envelope. I retrieved the folded paper inside and smoothed it out. Printed out with perfect, computerized font were words that read:

"_Dear __Arthur __Kirkland,_

_I will start with saying that I have never written a letter before. I know that letters are usually supposed to be handwritten, but I had an intuition that my handwriting would be too messy for your liking. Apparently, you are a person who enjoys tidiness, and my currently I find mine unsatisfactory._

_I can guess what you must be thinking. An anonymous letter? You also must not be in the mood to read this. However, I have a reason to write this letter and send it to you._

_You see, I was there when Francis Bonne––"_

I threw the letter down onto the table. The legs of my chair screeched against the wooden floor as I pushed as far away from the letter as I could. I stared at it as if it had teeth and could bite me and tried to remember how to breathe.

The police said that Francis died while he was trying to avoid a driver. It must have not been a busy street, if it came to that. There were probably a few witnesses, but not a lot, because I heard nothing of it.

It couldn't be.

After a moment, I swallowed hard and grabbed the paper again.

"–––_when Francis Bonnefoy got into his accident. Actually, he got into that accident because of me."_

I felt my heart drop down to my stomach, but willed myself to continue reading.

"_The police and the paramedics told me that he was drunk. They said that it wasn't my fault, and that if he had crashed into me both of us would have died. I still feel guilty. I knew that Francis must have friends and family who care about him._

_The police gave me his mother's phone number and, after a long talk, she told me about you. She told me that you really care for Francis, and that I should try to talk to you. She also told me that because you were probably grieving over Francis I should just try to write you a letter._

_So here it is, and I just have to say..._

_I'm very, truly sorry. I know that an apology is not enough for taking away someone you must love, but I need to at least say this. I'm very, very sorry. I wish I could have died instead of him. After hearing about him from his mother, he seems truly like a wonderful person. I wish I could have met him before._

_I know this is a not a satisfactory apology and a very bad letter and I don't deserve this but..._

_I'm really sorry. I'm not asking for forgiveness. I just wanted you to know this."_

The letter ended just like that. As the writer of the letter had said, it was completely anonymous, except for the return address, of course.

A stray tear fell out of my eye without notice and slid between my lips, filling my mouth with saltiness. I absentmindedly licked it off before reaching over to the counter for a pen and a piece of paper.

My return letter read:

"_Dear __Anonymous,_

_I do realize I could have just looked your name up on a phonebook, but I am currently not up to that action, and I don't believe I will be for a while._

_You must realize how thoughtless it is to send a letter to someone that you don't even know, but here I am doing the same, so I will not say much about that issue. It's a good thing, I guess, that you at least know that it's tactless to type and print out a letter. I expect your reply to be handwritten._

_Yes, that does mean that in the end I expect a reply._

_Anonymous, I will start by saying that I have no personal vendetta against you._

_I won't deny that I'm bothered by Francis' death. However, by no means assume that I actually loved him, or even cared about him to that far extent. We were childhood friends, but just that. We drifted apart, if you want a mental image of our relationship._

_It was kind of you to send your letter, though. I do wish that his unfortunate death could have been avoided, but not by yours. Don't feel guilty about something that was inevitable._

_I don't forgive you because there is nothing for me to forgive you for._

_Thank you, though, for sending me this letter. I won't exactly say it's what I needed, but it is much appreciated._

_Sincerely,_

_Arthur Kirkland"_

It did occur to me that I gave this anonymous writer very little to reply to, but I didn't really care. The air around my head had gotten extremely hot as I wrote, and I had to press a handkerchief against my face to prevent tears from spilling onto the paper.

I didn't know why I was crying, though. I wasn't particularly upset––alright, no, that was a complete lie. Francis was dead. I'd be at least a little affected, right?

It was true, though, that I wasn't upset at the sender of the letter. This person was the cause of Francis' death; if the sender hadn't even existed, Francis wouldn't have died. However, I couldn't find myself even the least bit angry at him or her. As I had said in letter, that person wasn't responsible for his death. It wasn't his or her fault.

It was my fault. I, at least, had come to that conclusion.

I found it strange that I wasn't the least bit curious of who this person was, though I had a feeling I knew why. The return address wasn't too far away from here. What if I knew this person, even vaguely?

I didn't want to think about it.

I sealed my letter into an envelope, wondering when I would be able to get the time–and motivation–to send it.

* * *

><p>Sometimes, even I had to admit defeat. I didn't even bother to walk into my kitchen. In my current condition, it was impossible for me to cook something without exploding something.<p>

I haven't had an appetite since hearing about... Hearing about Francis, but I knew I had to eat. I could faintly hear some faeries shouting at me, their voices tiny bell chimes in my ears. They had faded a bit since... then, but they were still there, and I knew that they were worried.

Where to get some grub, though? My mother and Peter had called only once, and promised to eat out for dinner sometime, but I didn't want that "sometime" to be now. I wasn't nearly hungry enough for that. I needed something cheap and convenient, something that I could scarf down in a few seconds that would be able to keep me going for a day or so.

* * *

><p>. . . <em>"<em>_Arthur, __you __must __enjoy __food,__"_ Francis told me when we were in his kitchen. Our mothers were sipping tea and chatting away in the dining room, and we were both in the mood for a snack.

It was about a year or so after we had met. He still wore ridiculous dresses now and then, giving me something to make fun of, but it wasn't like I had changed much either. I still wore the green cape that my mother had made me. My mother had bought me a pet rabbit that I named Peter, after the famous children's book titular character. I would have held Peter then, but Francis' mother didn't like having him inside of her house.

"I do," I responded–with venom, of course. Just because we knew each other for a while then didn't mean that we didn't dislike each other anymore, and he still treated me like an underling. "The food I ate back in England was good! And my mother still bakes scones every day."

Francis' face twisted up in disgust. "I didn't mean that sort of garbage, Arthur," he replied, his words still thick with an unappetizing French accent. "I've tried your mother's scones once. I'm not insulting your mother–she's a nice lady, and I will never say mean things about nice ladies–but they simply were not very well made."

He grinned at me despite my growing scowl. "You must try the good stuff from my country! Éclairs over scones, Arthur. Authentic French dishes––rooster simmered in red wine and vegetables, over your fish and chips. Our pot-au-feu beats yours by plenty!"

While back then I had absolutely no idea what a "pot-o-fur" was, I was already provoked enough from his remarks about scones and fish and chips, the two things I believed I could eat for every meal for the rest of my life and still be happy with.

"Bah!" I spat, advancing toward him with my hands into fists. It was quite a few years back from when we actually threw our first punches at each other, since neither knew the other's total strength, but oh, how much did I want to punch him back then! "I really hope you're not saying that France is better than England! Rubbish!"

"I'm saying just that," Francis replied, sticking out his tongue at me. My scowl grew, and he added, a bit hastily, "Well, at least in cooking!"

That didn't qualm me much, but Francis apparently wasn't looking for a quarrel, as he seemed to be every day, so he sent a grin towards me. "Well, Arthur, at least I can say both of our countries' food are better than American food, oui?"

I huffed, though I tried to keep my amusement from it. It was a known fact that Francis absolutely detested fast food, especially McDonalds, and I agreed. He found french fries to be a personal insult, and I didn't understand why there weren't just called 'chips'. American food confused us. It wasn't even American!

"Yes, yes," I muttered, crossing my arms. His remarks about fish and chips, though, _still __weren__'__t __to __be __forgotten__.__.__._

* * *

><p>I needed something cheap, fast, and convenient. And that's how I found myself in the closest McDonalds. The day was hot, and the air smelled heavily of sweat and french fries. <em>French<em> fries. I wrinkled my nose and stared up at the menu, hands in pockets, as other costumers bustled around me.

I never understood why McDonalds was so crowded. Maybe it was just full of people like me: sad people who don't want to eat, but know that they have to, so they come here. Cheap, convenient food that actually didn't taste all too bad. And it was fast. Just grab it and go, then devour it in a couple of bites with a few sips of a sugar-loaded drink. It even worked quickly.

Or maybe it was just full fatasses that enjoy the taste of salty, deep-fried potato sticks, sugar mixed with a couple drops of carbonated water, and grease-slicked beef sandwiched between two pathetic excuses of buns way too much. I was never too sure about Americans.

I waited in line for my turn at the counter. When it was my turn, I stepped up, keeping my eyes downward, away from the cashier. I didn't feel like making eye contact today.

"One hamburger, please, and a small cup of iced tea," I said–no, mumbled–to the counter.

"What?" The cashier's voice was loud. _Really _loud, as if his mouth was a megaphone. I flinched. "What did you say?"

"I said one hamburger, and a small iced tea!" I snapped annoyed, as I looked up. I was momentarily startled by blue eyes; the cashier's eyes were a vibrant blue, somehow even brighter than the summer sky outside of the fast food chain.

Blue. I felt my face involuntarily crumble into a scowl.

The cashier had a frown on his face from my exclamation, but his expression softened as he looked at me. This, for some reason, rubbed me the wrong way and I felt my scowl grow tighter.

"Alright," he said, his voice at room level now, and he punched in my order.

I nodded, rummaging in my pocket to take my wallet, but to my surprise he reached out and touched my shoulder. I flinched. Were workers even allowed to touch customers?

"Here," he said, a smile lightening his features now. He looked young before, but now he looked even younger. "You look like you're having a rough day. This one's on the house."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise–since when did people do random acts of kindness nowadays? Then my eyes strayed to the little digital price marked on the cash register. It was only $2.82.

"I'm fine," I said firmly as I withdrew the money from my wallet, but again he stopped me.

"I insist!" he replied, still smiling. I watched, befuddled, as he printed out my receipt and handed it to me, again rejecting the money in my hand. "Here, tell you what? My shift ends in less than half a hour. If it's possible, can you wait until it's done? I'll eat with you!"

Now why exactly would I want to do _that_? Him paying for my meal was one thing, but eating with me as well? In all my melancholy, I wasn't hungry for human contact. In fact, I rejected it. I didn't want other people to talk to.

Other people hurt.

The only person I could remember talking to entirely on my free will at that time was my anonymous sender, the person without a face.

I opened my mouth to reject his offer, but he had already turned around to work on my order. I sighed and moved out of the way so that he could deal with the next customer in line. Another worker called out my order once it was ready and, despite that I didn't order it to-go, I left once I got it.

* * *

><p>The next note from the anonymous sender was rather short but, as I had requested, handwritten. The words were written in an untidy scrawl, which made me suspect that the sender was a male... Though I knew better than the trust those type of stereotypes. My own handwriting was rather neat.<p>

It read:

"_Dear Arthur Kirkland,_

_I'm sorry to ask you such a personal question, but are you sure when you say that Francis wasn't a close friend of yours? His mother said that you two were really close, and you yourself say that you were childhood friends._

_And thank you very much for pardoning me. I still feel guilty, though I feel like you're not the type that would tolerate it, correct? I'm still personally very sorry for Francis, and any pain I have caused to you and the people close to him."_

I began to write:

"_Dear Anonymous, _

_Just 'Arthur' will do well. Seeing that you letters aren't exactly formal, I don't see why you have to write out my full name._

_I repeat, however, that Francis and I were merely friends, and that our friendship fell a long time ago. If I remember correctly, it shattered only two seconds after I met him, and that was when I was only five. It was silly, really. I thought he was a girl! He still looks"_

I paused, then went to retrieve my whiteout.

"–_He looked like one even as an adult. That moron really had to cut his hair since childhood, but never did._

_Enough about Francis, though. I don't have much to say about him._

_Sincerely,_

_Arthur Kirkland"_

Just writing about Francis made my mouth dry and filled with a sour, bitter taste. The air around my face was hot again and my eyes prickled, but to my surprise they were also dry. I would expect myself to start bawling–and I _hated_ crying–upon even mentioning him. Maybe it was because I was writing about him to a complete stranger. If I were talking to him (or her) in the face, I probably wouldn't even have dared try.

I paused and pressed my hands against my face.

The darkness they brought was soothing against my hot eyes.


End file.
